DERVISH ARMY ROUTED.
THE ROAD TO KHARTOUM IS OPEN.
BRITISH RELIEF COLUMN WILL ARRIVE WITHIN DAYS.
She read it twice, the first time swiftly, the second deliberately. At last she looked up at him. “Do you think it is the truth this time?”
“It will be a cruel hoax if it is not. But Chinese Gordon is not renowned for his restraint or his consideration for the delicate feelings of others.”
Rebecca pretended to reread the bulletin, but her mind was racing. If the relief column was truly on its way, was the need for a permanent relationship with Ryder Courtney really so pressing? As his wife she would be doomed to spend the rest of her days in this wild, savage land. Would she ever again see the green fields of England and have the society of civilized people? Was there any desperate urgency to marry a man who was pleasant and would care for her, but whom she did not love?
“True or not,” Ryder went on, ‘we shall find out very soon. One way or the other you will still be my fiancee. There is a full head of steam in the this’s boiler and her hold is loaded with every stick of cargo it can carry He broke off and studied her face quizzically. “What is it, my darling? Is something worrying you?”
“I have not yet replied to your question,” she said softly.
“Oh, if that is all, then I shall repeat it and hope for your formal response,” he said. “Will you, Rebecca Helen Benbrook, take me, Ryder Courtney, to be your lawful wedded husband?”
“In all truth, I do not know,” she said, and he stared at her, appalled. “Please give me a little time to think about it. It is a momentous decision and not one I can rush into.”
In this pivotal moment on which so much depended, a thought suddenly occurred to her: If the relief column arrives the day after tomorrow, will Penrod Ballantyne be with them? Then she thought, It is of no account, one way or the other, for he no longer means anything to me. I made a mistake in trusting him, but now he can go back to his Arab girls and his philandering ways for all I care. But she found herself unconvinced by this, and the image of Penrod persisted in her mind long after she had left Ryder’s compound and was on her way back to the consular palace.
It took Sir Charles Wilson several days to bring in all his wounded, the baggage and the camel string. In the meantime he fortified the camp on the riverbank below Metemma, siting the Nordenfelt machine-guns to cover all the approaches, and he raised the walls of the zareba to a height of six feet.
On the third day after the battle the chief regimental surgeon reported to him that General Stewart’s wound had developed gangrene. Wilson hurried down to the hospital tent. The rotten sweet smell of necrotic flesh was nauseating in the heat. He found Stewart lying in a bath of his own sweat under a mosquito net over which the huge hairy blue flies crawled, searching for some point of entry to reach the irresistible odour of the wound. It was covered with a field dressing, heavily stained with a custard-yellow discharge.
“I have managed to remove the bullet,” the surgeon assured Wilson, then lowered his voice to a whisper that the stricken man could not hear: “The gangrene has a firm hold, sir. There is little or no hope, I am afraid.”
Stewart was delirious and mistook Wilson for General Gordon as he stooped over the camp bed. “Thank God we were in time, Gordon. There were times when I feared we would be too late. I offer you my congratulations for your courage and fortitude, which saved Khartoum. Yours is an achievement of which Her Majesty and every citizen of the British Empire will be justly proud.”
“I am Charles Wilson, not Charles Gordon, sir,” Wilson corrected him.
Stewart stared at him in astonishment, then reached through the mosquito net and seized his hand. “Oh, well done, Charles! I knew I could trust you to do your duty. Where is Gordon? Ask him to come to me at once. I want to congratulate him myself.”
Wilson freed his hand and stood back from the bed. He turned to the surgeon. “Are you sedating him sufficiently? It will do him no good to become so agitated.”
“I am administering ten grains of laudanum every two hours. But there is little pain in the site of a wound once the gangrene takes hold.”
“I will place him on the first steamer that departs downriver for Aswan. That will probably be in two or three days’ time.”
“Two or three days?” Stewart had only picked up the last few sentences. “Why are you sending Gordon down to Aswan, and why two or three days? Answer me that.”
“The steamers will set off for Khartoum imminently, General. We have run into unforeseen but unavoidable obstacles.”
“Gordon? But where is Gordon?”
“We must hope he is still holding out in Khartoum, sir, but we have had no news of him.”
Stewart looked around the tent with a wild, bewildered expression. “Is this not Khartoum? Where are we? How long have we been here?”
“This is Metemma, sir,” the surgeon intervened gently. “You have been here four days.”
“Four days!” Stewart’s voice rose to a shout. “Four days! You have thrown away the sacrifice made by my poor lads. Why did you not push on with all speed to Khartoum, instead of sitting here?
“He is delirious,” Wilson snapped at the surgeon. “Give him another dose of laudanum.”
“I am not delirious!” Stewart shouted “If you don’t set out for Khartoum immediately, I will see you court- martial led and shot for dereliction of your duty and cowardice in the face of the enemy, sir.” He choked and fell back, spent and muttering, on his pillows. He closed his eyes and was quiet.
“Poor fellow.” Wilson shook his head with deep regret. “Completely out of his head and hallucinating. No appreciation of the situation. Look after him and make him comfortable.”
He acknowledged the doctor’s salute, and ducked out through the fly of the tent. He blinked in the bright sunlight, then scowled as he realized that a small group of officers was standing rigidly to attention nearby. They had certainly heard every word that had been spoken. Their expressions left no doubt of that.
“Have you gentlemen nothing better to do than laze about here?” Wilson demanded. They avoided his eyes as they saluted and walked away.
Only one stood his ground. Penrod Ballantyne was the junior officer in the group. His behaviour was impudent. He was walking the tightrope across the lethal chasm of insubordination. Wilson glowered at him. “What are you about, Captain?” he demanded.
“I wondered if I might speak to you, sir.”
“What is it, then?”
“The camels are fully recovered. Plenty of water and good feed. With your permission I could be in Khartoum within twenty-four hours.”
“To what purpose, Captain? Are you proposing a one-man liberation of the city?” Wilson allowed his scowl to change to an amused smirk -an expression that was no great improvement, Penrod thought.
“My purpose would be to take your despatches to General Gordon, and inform him of your intentions, sir. The city is sore pressed and at the limit of its endurance. There are English women and children within the wails. It can be only days before they fall into the clutches of the Mahdi. I was hoping I might be allowed to assure General Gordon that you have his plight and that of the populace in mind.”
“You disapprove of my conduct of the campaign, do you? By the way, what is your name, sir?” Of course Wilson knew his name: this was a calculated insult.
“Penrod Ballantyne, 10th Hussars, sir. And no, sir, I would not presume to remark on your conduct of the campaign. I was merely offering, for your consideration, my local knowledge of the situation.”
“I shall be sure to call upon you if I feel in need of your vast wisdom. I will mention your subordinate conduct in the despatches I shall write at the conclusion of the campaign. You are to remain in this camp. I shall not detach you on any independent mission. I shall not include you in the force that I shall lead to the relief of Khartoum. At the first opportunity you will be sent back to Cairo. You will take no further part in this campaign. Do I make myself clear, Captain?”
“Abundantly clear, sir.” Penrod saluted.
Wilson did not return his salute as he stamped away.
Over the days that followed, Wilson spent most of his time in his headquarters tent, busying himself with his despatches. He ordered an inventory of the remaining stores and ammunition. He inspected the fortifications of the zareba. He drilled the men. He visited the wounded daily, but General Stewart was no longer conscious. The
